


Crossing

by SALJStella



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dancing, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 14:35:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10721286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SALJStella/pseuds/SALJStella
Summary: I just really wanted something with them dancing ok





	Crossing

Will should’ve known the thought behind buying that old record player. Hannibal doesn’t do anything thoughtlessly.

It’s installed on the sideboard that Will honestly figured would stay reserved for dishes Hannibal didn’t deem extravagant enough to serve on the dining table. The speakers are of course well hidden under the floor-length tablecloth. Will should probably question where the hell Hannibal learned to install sound equipment, but doesn’t have it in him. At this point, he’s convinced that Hannibal has learned every technical ability there is because he doesn’t deem the rest of the population fit to do him any services.

Even if Will had ever left Hannibal’s side during the past year, it’d be hard to think anything less than that as he stands now. The fall is drawing near in Venice, and as the soft orange sunlight shines through their church-style windows, low shadows on Hannibal’s hands, his cheekbones, as he gently places the needle on the spinning record, infinitely delicate touch, no one would disagree with him. There’s nothing those hands couldn’t do.

They install speakers. They cook, play, kill. They make you willingly give up your entire life and travel Europe with him, to do these exact things.

Music streams from under the table. Hannibal smiles, in that minute way he days, and looks up at Will, standing by the window and not making any secret at all of his staring.

“Tchaikovsky,” he says, grazing the vinyl cover on the table. “The 1812 Overture.”

Will turns to the window.

“Is that the one with the cannons?”

There’s a beat of silence before Hannibal replies. “Yes,” he says. Will smiles, though it turns out a lot more bitter than he intended.

“Don’t get impressed,” he mutters. “They play it on Independence Day, that’s why I know it. Why miss an opportunity to bring weapons into music.”

Despite that Hannibal barely moves, Will swears he can _hear_ his smile before taking the soft steps up to right behind him, a dark but ever present like a shadow. He’s used to feeling these subtle changes in the moods of others; in fact, other people’s fears and desires and drives have followed to some degree through his entire life, like a constant headache. Voices and wills wrestling for his attention so that for the longest time, Will didn’t know which one of the voices were his own. Pretty sure he didn’t want to know. Hannibal is the first person he’s wanted in his head.

Hannibal is facing the window. Will still knows what he’s looking at.

“Why shouldn’t I be impressed?” is what he finally asks, which Will must admit, is not what he expected him to ask.

“Even Louisiana trash knows the basic classical music,” he replies. “This one, that one with Beethoven…”

“By,” Hannibal cuts through softly. “Not with, by.”

Will cracks up, shaking his head.

“I’d argue that you’ve done all you can to leave the Louisiana trash parts of you back in Wolftrap,” Hannibal says. “Shed every piece you deemed unworthy of our new life, like a snake of its scales.”

“That would be the most of me.”

“I’m aware. But what I wanted you to experience was a heightened version of yourself, Will. Not a remade one.”

Will swallows. Since they left, he’s seen Hannibal bite a man’s lip off his face and licked the blood off his own chin like it was nothing. He’s not sure why this is the part that makes his jaw go tight.

Eventually, Hannibal steps away from him, back to the record player. Will turns around as he picks a new case out of the vinyl cabinet.

“You refuse to play something low enough for me to know it?” he says.

The corners of Hannibal’s eyes crease in a smile.

“Since we’re no longer in America, and since it’s not Fourth of July…”

Hannibal puts the new record on. The needle rasps and something new flows out of the speakers. Something light and slow, with trickling piano notes.

“And because I’d like to partake in this with you,” he finishes, stepping up to Will again. “None other than you. This heightened Louisiana trash version.”

He doesn’t break eye contact for one second as he takes Will’s hand, though Will bristles at the contact. He’s not sure what they’re doing at first, until Hannibal leads him out onto the living room carpet and puts a hand on his waist. Then he chuckles, looks down.

“Seriously?”

Hannibal smiles that way again. Will is, far from the first time, so grateful that he can’t always tell what Hannibal is thinking.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I haven’t danced since I was seventeen. I even convinced Molly to let me skip the one at our wedding.”

Hannibal’s smile dampens slightly, as it usually does when Molly is mentioned. But he doesn’t let go of Will, and something about the comparison to his wedding is probably why it finally strikes Will; they’re close, bodies not quite touching but he feels Hannibal’s warmth through layers of clothes and through his never-faltering gaze on Will’s face.

They’ve had to take on husband personas in a few of the countries they’ve stayed in, but never went for the visual confirmation of that image. And while Will has felt Hannibal’s eyes drag across his body more times than he can count, just like all the times his hand has traveled beneath the covers with Hannibal’s voice in his head, they’ve played every part with each other except for this one. Danced every dance.

Will’s heartbeats feel heavy in his chest, rippling over to Hannibal through their laced-together fingers.

“It’s a simple waltz,” Hannibal finally says, letting go of Will’s waist to place his hand on his own shoulder. “Just follow my lead.”

Will doesn’t bother objecting again. Hannibal smiles again and starts them off, slowly, their steps soundless against the carpet. Will blushes the first time he stumbles on Hannibal’s feet.

“I’m not…” he quiets, hearing how stupid it sounds but finishes anyway: “I’m not like this. I don’t do this.”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever met whose intelligence matches my own,” Hannibal says. “I’m sure you can figure out the basic rhythms of this melody. Don’t look at your feet.”

Will looks up from his own struggling steps, settling his gaze on Hannibal’s face. To his surprise, that does make things smoother. When he manages to relax, trust Hannibal to lead, the stumbling fades to a minimum. There’s warmth and something else in Hannibal’s smile, and Will has to will himself not to blush again.

“Did you plan this?”

“Plan what?”

“With the record player,” Will says. “Or is it just because you couldn’t bring the harpsichord?”

Hannibal snorts and holds their joined hands to his chest, for the briefest moment.

“I can honestly say that, no,” he says. Will is sure his voice is pitched lower, or maybe it’s just how soft the words are spoken. “The thought of dancing with you didn’t occur to me until I realized how absurd you thought the idea that you would know any of the music I listen to.”

Will shrugs.

“It’s not that odd. We come from different… backgrounds.” He was about to say ‘worlds,’ but all this already feels too melodramatic.

“We’re in the same world now,” Hannibal says.

Will hasn’t stumbled in several bars, he realizes. He just follows along. They move as one and he feels Hannibal’s mind engulfing his, he knows the rhythm now because Hannibal knows it, the white noise in his mind drowns in the notes that Hannibal knows so well.

“I don’t think any other world would take us.” Will tries to make it sound like a joke. It’s not, of course.

Hannibal looks at his face for a long time. Will starts to think that he spoke out of turn, and then Hannibal lifts the one hand from Will’s waist to his cheek, barely more than a whisper of a touch.

“There is none I’d rather be in,” Hannibal murmurs.

Will isn’t sure which one of them it is that’s drawn the other one closer, but they’re flush against each other now, chest to chest, groin to groin, and their dancing has slowed down to a faint rocking back and forth. Hannibal’s breath is on his cheek, fingers still on his face. Will avoids Hannibal’s gaze now, for the first time since they reached Venice, because it’s the first time since then he’s not sure what he’d see if he looks up.

He wonders just how long they’ve been dancing around this particular aspect of their relationship. If it’s just since the Dragon or if he’s been avoiding this since that first day in Jack’s office, with Hannibal ever present. The darkness ready to swallow him whole.

Hannibal’s fingers move further against his temple. The hand still holding Will’s caressing his thumb.

“Will?” he says, his voice little over a low rumble at this point. It resonates through their every point of contact.

Will finally looks up. Hannibal’s eyes, so familiar to him now, seem even darker up close. Will notices he’s short of breath, and he shouldn’t be; none of this is news to him. Nonetheless, the hand on Hannibal’s shoulder is trembling slightly.

Hannibal slides his one hand down to Will’s hip, pressing him closer. Will wasn’t even aware he’s hard until his erection grinds up against Hannibal’s upper thigh, drawing a low gasp from him. Hannibal leans into Will’s hair, a soft breath of laughter right by his ear.

“Please,” Hannibal murmurs, as if Will would deny him anything at all in this position, “let me…”

Will nods breathlessly, not sure what Hannibal is offering and not caring in the slightest. He just _wants._

Hannibal keeps his nose around Will’s hair, Will feels him inhale and a hint of open mouth and teeth as he’s being gently pushed back. The back of his thighs eventually hit the edge of the dining room table, and he smiles as he runs his hand through Hannibal’s hair.

“Really?”

Hannibal leaves his neck to meet Will’s gaze as he digs long fingers into his thighs and lifts him onto the edge of the table.

“I didn’t get to eat your brain out of your skull earlier,” he says, unbuckling Will’s belt as if they have all day for this. “Why should I deny myself feasting on you in another aspect?”

That really shouldn’t be something that makes Will moan softly, but what you gonna do. Hannibal drops to his knees, hair strands hanging loose in his eyes. Will props himself up to half-sitting, watching Hannibal as he deftly undoes his fly, leaning his face into the bulge his boxers form, dampening the fabric. Will’s head falls back. He wonders if Hannibal knows how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. He can probably smell it on his skin.

If it were with anyone else, Will would be embarrassed by how loudly he groans as Hannibal sinks his mouth onto his cock. To his defense, he feels Hannibal’s moan vibrate from his throat, as if Will’s taste is exactly what he imagined. _How long have you wanted this,_ Will wants to ask, but he doesn’t want Hannibal to do something else with his mouth right now. Plus, he already knows the answer. He can feel Hannibal’s excitement, it’s like sparks of static in the air.

Hannibal bobs his head forward, and Will’s elbows buckle as Hannibal’s throat tightens around his length. It’s so good. He can’t even think. He doesn’t recognize the sounds coming out of his mouth and he wants to scream when Hannibal pulls off of him with a wet noise.

“Fuck my mouth, Will. If you so wish.”

He looks absolutely debauched, with reddened cheeks and glistening lips. Will covers his eyes with one hand.

“Jesus, Hannibal.”

“I’d enjoy it tremendously.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just. Don’t stop. More.”

Will is certain that Hannibal’s mouth is pooling as it’s lowered over him again, and now Will puts his hand on the back of his head, pushing up into tight heat. The thought of Hannibal, his nightmare, the one demon that will keep his other demons at bay, letting him use his mouth and his body this way is incredible in itself, and when Will comes, he has to bite down on his index finger to keep from crying out.

Hannibal doesn’t let him get away, of course, but pushes his face almost into Will’s pelvis as he swallows with mirth. Will is panting as Hannibal stands back up, his eyes glistening, palming his cock through his suit pants. Will just had a bone-shattering orgasm, but still that sight makes him want even more of that thing he’s still not sure what it is exactly. He slides forward on the table top, putting his hand over Hannibal’s.

“What do you need?” he whispers, his stomach lurching as he feels Hannibal’s erection against his thigh. “Tell me.”

“Just this,” Hannibal says, guiding Will’s hand over his fly. “It’s perfect.”

Hannibal’s cock is hot and pulsing in his hand. Just how heady his want is to feel it in other places almost scares Will, but it’s like all his fear regarding Hannibal; absolutely addictive and dark and sweet.

“Kiss me,” Will breathes as he strokes Hannibal too hard, desperate like a fucking teenager. Hannibal does, tasting of Will and of himself and the blood that either of them manages to draw from the other’s lip. They keep kissing as Hannibal groans and Will feels him spilling over his hand. How could he stop. How will he ever be able to stop wanting this.

Afterwards, Will feels liquid. Hannibal’s breath is still hitting his temple hard, and he leans up for another slow, warm kiss, and breaks apart only to put one finger in mouth, sucking Hannibal’s semen off his skin. The look Hannibal gives him would’ve gotten him hard again if he could.

“Just this, huh?” Will asks, sliding off the table. Hannibal smiles, reaching up to stroke his neck, like he can’t keep his hands off of him, like he’ll never be able to stop.

“Whatever else you’d wish to include in this particular orbit, I will make sure you won’t miss for long. Whatever it may be.”

Will wants to ask if he can just have this, Hannibal’s hands, his mouth. No killing, no more blood. He leans his forehead against Hannibal’s shoulder and realizes he doesn’t really want to hear the answer.

**Author's Note:**

> The line "he can probably smell it on your skin" is shamelessly stolen from one of my faves, Songs for a Heart Still Beating by makokitten.


End file.
